Dreams of bonds
As we walk through the stoney path, we are laughing at weird shaped onions.My clammy from-nervous-sweating hands are clasping onto your dry long fingers.
We exchange cheeky winks and lustful grins with sprinkles of flirtation afloat.
I have burger breath with leftover fries in my bag but you...you don't give a shit about that.I'm your girl and all you wanna do is accompany me thru the disco nights and kebab take-outs.
We're past the stage of carefully applied mascara and clean blazers, yet when I am on my way to see you, I still make the effort like its the first date.
The 242 is coming and we're both running for it. we're on our way to Leicester square to view the lights of youth (and clubbing!).As our feet clammber to the top deck I trip up but you lift me up and we both giggle like seven year old girls.
My side fringe gets in the way and you sweep it from my eyelid. We sit at the back and we both fight for the window seat, then you finally...give it up to me.
Our talk of smelly onions, dodgy nollywood films and rising costs of london are precious.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Confessional bland sinner; of the modern age.
Confessional bland sinner; of the modern age.
As I take the sip of Evian (in a desperate attempt for better health...failer folks, failer)I look and see the potential opening to wreak my business onto the suspecting public.I'll put onions on their eyes, as I spill the not so secret beans.A desperate attack on the blog which was blantantly designed for shameless, unheeded writings of ones personal journey.
In words of sorrows, misjudgings, anticipation and sheer curiousness, I, the expressist carry out the prolonged attack on the reader.I write some shit and have a niggle of a feeling that you might...just...might relate to it.Oh wow...originality there, eh? Some form of sympathy wrapped as empathy because no one can ever really know how you really feel.They can regconise it but not empathise entirely cause similar means just that. It doesn't mean the same thing.Boredom was the reason that I am writing right now, I feel bored. Therefore I confess then call it 'poetry'
Am I too, guilty of the confessional poetry?Do I allude mysef then give the expressed jumbled mumbo to my friends or any Tom, Dick and Larry...
I'll give myself peace and this a poem. It will make me feel better.I cannot lie; this confessional does me wonders.Is this now a contradiction or will I allow it and say that the confessional poetry shall be left as being called poetry.Maybe the title is deserved because reading the sheer simplicity of someone else's thoughts is a valued fascination.
A confused, bland confessonalist. Help the dying keypad and my sore eyes....
As I take the sip of Evian (in a desperate attempt for better health...failer folks, failer)I look and see the potential opening to wreak my business onto the suspecting public.I'll put onions on their eyes, as I spill the not so secret beans.A desperate attack on the blog which was blantantly designed for shameless, unheeded writings of ones personal journey.
In words of sorrows, misjudgings, anticipation and sheer curiousness, I, the expressist carry out the prolonged attack on the reader.I write some shit and have a niggle of a feeling that you might...just...might relate to it.Oh wow...originality there, eh? Some form of sympathy wrapped as empathy because no one can ever really know how you really feel.They can regconise it but not empathise entirely cause similar means just that. It doesn't mean the same thing.Boredom was the reason that I am writing right now, I feel bored. Therefore I confess then call it 'poetry'
Am I too, guilty of the confessional poetry?Do I allude mysef then give the expressed jumbled mumbo to my friends or any Tom, Dick and Larry...
I'll give myself peace and this a poem. It will make me feel better.I cannot lie; this confessional does me wonders.Is this now a contradiction or will I allow it and say that the confessional poetry shall be left as being called poetry.Maybe the title is deserved because reading the sheer simplicity of someone else's thoughts is a valued fascination.
A confused, bland confessonalist. Help the dying keypad and my sore eyes....
Lives of the lovers, the kindred fatals.
Lives of the lovers, the kindred fatals.
Entwined souls of the hipped joined lovers.The smiling woman and the scowling man.His fist just might upper cut a delicate cheek.
That throwing down the stairs can fuck you up, or at least put you in a wards bed.They hold hands and read Sylvia Plath together. Manic depression should be his name.
They go to Paris, in her hope of the passion to outgrow it self.That happens with the rages instead.
She forgets to put peppers in the left hand draw in the corner of the fridge. She then has to go to the doctors for a broken hand.
The frown from the kindred turns to a delicate insult.Then the delicate insult to a swear filled one and then she responds back....
The first offical slap and she goes to her friends house. But staying with 3 kids and a another married couple is not the one.
After a desperate attempt of finding a flat, she returns to the kindred spirit she longs for.A slap then a trip to Venice. Cold milk over her midnight curls and she gets another salon trip to have her hair straightened; he likes it that way.A kick in the pregnant belly and the baby dies but they're at it soon after.She is going mad inside but loves the scowler. Eventual periods of time are taking place; for mental breakdown is not a quick thing.
She thinks its her fault even though its not.She thinks she has no one even though people are there for her.She tries to avoid the inevitable egg shells but cracked they already were. It just took time for them to be seen.As each slap is becoming more and immune for him; the pain is fresh for her.The what if's and buts and hows are emerged but ignored.A fairly confident woman is now reduced to a wreck inside; a pretender she is now.A smile from her colleague at a mutual party and she knows what will happen when she gets home.
The living shit will be battered and kicked out of her.The lengendary beating is her last.
She runs like an animal unleashed into the wild.She's one of the lions now who looks as though she's gonna eat that cub.
Bit by bit she was moving her clothes out with her prized possessions.She's heading somewhere else after 5 years of captivity with a beast.The scowler only finds her letter after washing his bloodied belt and cleaning his nails.He hangs himself 2 years later; after she had just found someone else.
At her secret visit to his grave, She looked at the stone and let her heart become just that.
The memories of Paris and Venice,
gallerias and shoreditch.
The theatre and ballet.
First kisses and touches.
First slaps and punches.
Her very first rapist.
The lost baby and those kicks.
She drives hereself home and has 2 bottles of vodka; in remembrance of him. The scowler.
Entwined souls of the hipped joined lovers.The smiling woman and the scowling man.His fist just might upper cut a delicate cheek.
That throwing down the stairs can fuck you up, or at least put you in a wards bed.They hold hands and read Sylvia Plath together. Manic depression should be his name.
They go to Paris, in her hope of the passion to outgrow it self.That happens with the rages instead.
She forgets to put peppers in the left hand draw in the corner of the fridge. She then has to go to the doctors for a broken hand.
The frown from the kindred turns to a delicate insult.Then the delicate insult to a swear filled one and then she responds back....
The first offical slap and she goes to her friends house. But staying with 3 kids and a another married couple is not the one.
After a desperate attempt of finding a flat, she returns to the kindred spirit she longs for.A slap then a trip to Venice. Cold milk over her midnight curls and she gets another salon trip to have her hair straightened; he likes it that way.A kick in the pregnant belly and the baby dies but they're at it soon after.She is going mad inside but loves the scowler. Eventual periods of time are taking place; for mental breakdown is not a quick thing.
She thinks its her fault even though its not.She thinks she has no one even though people are there for her.She tries to avoid the inevitable egg shells but cracked they already were. It just took time for them to be seen.As each slap is becoming more and immune for him; the pain is fresh for her.The what if's and buts and hows are emerged but ignored.A fairly confident woman is now reduced to a wreck inside; a pretender she is now.A smile from her colleague at a mutual party and she knows what will happen when she gets home.
The living shit will be battered and kicked out of her.The lengendary beating is her last.
She runs like an animal unleashed into the wild.She's one of the lions now who looks as though she's gonna eat that cub.
Bit by bit she was moving her clothes out with her prized possessions.She's heading somewhere else after 5 years of captivity with a beast.The scowler only finds her letter after washing his bloodied belt and cleaning his nails.He hangs himself 2 years later; after she had just found someone else.
At her secret visit to his grave, She looked at the stone and let her heart become just that.
The memories of Paris and Venice,
gallerias and shoreditch.
The theatre and ballet.
First kisses and touches.
First slaps and punches.
Her very first rapist.
The lost baby and those kicks.
She drives hereself home and has 2 bottles of vodka; in remembrance of him. The scowler.
Back to black; again and again and.....
Back to black; again and again and.....
What is new? Nothing.
* feel pulled at, bugged, angry, pissed off, not happy at all. No sense of peace because there is so much going on that well...people would not guess.How long will pretense last for? How long will the patience last for? How long will it be before open their eyes and things for what they are? How do * have to wait? How long?! How long!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
When will it end? After trying and trying and trying but falling back in the trap!?Black hole? No...* am at the earth's core. Save the body from the earth's coreHey, can I borrow your patience? Oh * can I borrow your self-esteem or...don't wanna ask for too much but can I take the piss out of you too?
I
need
space.
And I make that for me. I need to get out and get out soon.Walls of sandy stone will break and crumble down like cheap apple crumble.The thinnest layers are stretching like cheap glue, with see thru tints.Do I see gold...no...just clearness; nothing is there.
Deadly depression...is now the question, unhappiness of moaning and holding...in. The steam of hot headed-ness.Maybe not depression but unhappiness that is noticed but not dealt with. Complications of fluctuations of feelings are the heat that burns the shoulders and itches the eyes.
No room for sole companionship, no place for overnight talk, no space for the headcase.The paranoia is in official ramblings and * is distressed.
Gross and icky skin, hair that is losing body, the body that is losing its glamour. Encripted crys of help are taking place and people are listening but then * lie. Lie and lie and lie.A lone rider is maybe what I need to be now; ride my own cause its all getting to me.Work is getting to me, I don't know how I feel about uni. I feel like the fucking special dumb kid who they let back in on a snippet of actual merit. Some people would kill me if they heard that but thats the truth although *believe me...* I am still grateful for the bone I was thrown. I'm still trying though to be a good student but how long will that last for? Does a zebra ever change their stripes...or do they zip em up in a tight body suit?
Maybe I should pack it all in and say fuck it all to all of this shit? Maybe I should be a someone who works 5 days a week and have money with not much happiness.Know one will ever understand me; They'll only ever accept me because sometimes I still try to understand myself,
What does Abiola really want? What makes me happy? Why am I alaways on the shelf in every aspect?Why do I need? What is best for me? Who or what do I get rid off in my life?Another blog; with answers that only * can find.
What is new? Nothing.
* feel pulled at, bugged, angry, pissed off, not happy at all. No sense of peace because there is so much going on that well...people would not guess.How long will pretense last for? How long will the patience last for? How long will it be before open their eyes and things for what they are? How do * have to wait? How long?! How long!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
When will it end? After trying and trying and trying but falling back in the trap!?Black hole? No...* am at the earth's core. Save the body from the earth's coreHey, can I borrow your patience? Oh * can I borrow your self-esteem or...don't wanna ask for too much but can I take the piss out of you too?
I
need
space.
And I make that for me. I need to get out and get out soon.Walls of sandy stone will break and crumble down like cheap apple crumble.The thinnest layers are stretching like cheap glue, with see thru tints.Do I see gold...no...just clearness; nothing is there.
Deadly depression...is now the question, unhappiness of moaning and holding...in. The steam of hot headed-ness.Maybe not depression but unhappiness that is noticed but not dealt with. Complications of fluctuations of feelings are the heat that burns the shoulders and itches the eyes.
No room for sole companionship, no place for overnight talk, no space for the headcase.The paranoia is in official ramblings and * is distressed.
Gross and icky skin, hair that is losing body, the body that is losing its glamour. Encripted crys of help are taking place and people are listening but then * lie. Lie and lie and lie.A lone rider is maybe what I need to be now; ride my own cause its all getting to me.Work is getting to me, I don't know how I feel about uni. I feel like the fucking special dumb kid who they let back in on a snippet of actual merit. Some people would kill me if they heard that but thats the truth although *believe me...* I am still grateful for the bone I was thrown. I'm still trying though to be a good student but how long will that last for? Does a zebra ever change their stripes...or do they zip em up in a tight body suit?
Maybe I should pack it all in and say fuck it all to all of this shit? Maybe I should be a someone who works 5 days a week and have money with not much happiness.Know one will ever understand me; They'll only ever accept me because sometimes I still try to understand myself,
What does Abiola really want? What makes me happy? Why am I alaways on the shelf in every aspect?Why do I need? What is best for me? Who or what do I get rid off in my life?Another blog; with answers that only * can find.
Whilst I'm doing my homework....
Whilst I'm doing my homework....
Coldness of season.
Conditions of change,
Give me your graces andI’ll show you my lane.
Show me your thickness and let me live.
I will forever be at God’s mercy and at the Holy Ghost’s feet.
Begging for another chance from sinners lane.
Fiery rough of forests and splintered trees.
We hold hands and you sing sweet Redding songs to me.
Oh love me tender and lick me till I’m blue.
Coldness of season.
Conditions of change,
Give me your graces andI’ll show you my lane.
Show me your thickness and let me live.
I will forever be at God’s mercy and at the Holy Ghost’s feet.
Begging for another chance from sinners lane.
Fiery rough of forests and splintered trees.
We hold hands and you sing sweet Redding songs to me.
Oh love me tender and lick me till I’m blue.
And whilst I'm doing my homework.....I made a short series
And whilst I'm doing my homework.....I made a short series
The white screen blinds these eyes slowly.Gently and quickly; the dirty air will cease.In this room, I feel my own breath and inhale my own body warmth.The road on the next morning is there for pure unadulterated shitting,wetness from the night before is setting into the ground and my tears may follow it.I have no reason to be this emotional; actually, that’s a lie. I have every reason to feel this wave of angst and indescribable shame. The greyness of my eyes and skin give away the hot pain of the lost youth of my freedom. Freedom of my 90s is the freedom that died.
Buttercups and dandelions. Blossoms and tulips. I watch these flowers and their eyes are on me. Obscurity in its deepest form when entwined with watchful nature. Man’s own sightings are dogged by conscience and the drippings of greed’s fat stink up the fucking air.Flies on wall and the homeless crawl the sidewalk. Oh, wait, I meant the pavement; I forgot I was British for a second. Well, the night is young and I’m desperately trying to feel it up.
My mind, my head. Is gone.My spirit, these eyes are weak.The love and living of my youth is dried.I feel old. So old.Weathered and battered.I smell of garlic. My sister told me that.
Races of the cultures, fellow fathers of all falls.Legends of my falls and glitter of tomorrow’s ancestry.Gentle swayer of the old and new world; commander of the guilds.
The white screen blinds these eyes slowly.Gently and quickly; the dirty air will cease.In this room, I feel my own breath and inhale my own body warmth.The road on the next morning is there for pure unadulterated shitting,wetness from the night before is setting into the ground and my tears may follow it.I have no reason to be this emotional; actually, that’s a lie. I have every reason to feel this wave of angst and indescribable shame. The greyness of my eyes and skin give away the hot pain of the lost youth of my freedom. Freedom of my 90s is the freedom that died.
Buttercups and dandelions. Blossoms and tulips. I watch these flowers and their eyes are on me. Obscurity in its deepest form when entwined with watchful nature. Man’s own sightings are dogged by conscience and the drippings of greed’s fat stink up the fucking air.Flies on wall and the homeless crawl the sidewalk. Oh, wait, I meant the pavement; I forgot I was British for a second. Well, the night is young and I’m desperately trying to feel it up.
My mind, my head. Is gone.My spirit, these eyes are weak.The love and living of my youth is dried.I feel old. So old.Weathered and battered.I smell of garlic. My sister told me that.
Races of the cultures, fellow fathers of all falls.Legends of my falls and glitter of tomorrow’s ancestry.Gentle swayer of the old and new world; commander of the guilds.
Am bored as f***...so maybe passing the time should help...
Am bored as f***...so maybe passing the time should help...
Boredom is killing my time.Me very bored.Boredom is eating me hard.
Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
I hate people
They suck cause humanity sucks.
Humanity sucks cause no one wants to be humane.
Inhumane is the name of the fucking game.
Even if its evil........................
We are not a healthy bunch of people.....this is wrong
Boredom is killing my time.Me very bored.Boredom is eating me hard.
Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
I hate people
They suck cause humanity sucks.
Humanity sucks cause no one wants to be humane.
Inhumane is the name of the fucking game.
Even if its evil........................
We are not a healthy bunch of people.....this is wrong
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